Dead Clever

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Dolores always has a good cry when she peels an onion . . . He didn’t give you any sort of a reason?’

  ‘Just phoned me to tell me not to bother to turn up. I wasn’t going to argue with him!’

  ‘Cristina says there was a guest staying last night. Have you any idea who it was?’

  ‘None at all . . . Give me that saucepan by your elbow.’

  He passed it across. She began to chop up the onion and to sweep the pieces into the saucepan.

  ‘Have you seen a white Ford Fiesta parked up at the house recently; not the one used by the señorita.’

  She shook her head as a tear trickled down each cheek.

  He showed her the photograph of Green and she reluctantly stopped work long enough to look at it. ‘Never seen him.’

  He thanked her and was surprised that she showed no curiosity about the reasons for his questions. She said that she supposed he could find his own way out and as he left she finished chopping up the onion and reached for a couple of carrots.

  Back in his car, he did not immediately start the engine and drive off, but stared blankly through the windscreen, drumming his fingers on the wheel. It seemed fairly obvious what had been the sequence of events. Green’s attempt to fake his own death had run into serious trouble which could only be overcome by the deaths of the Navarro brothers. He’d thought he had executed their murders so perfectly that no one would ever suspect they’d been murdered, but then had learned that one of them had survived. So now, if it were shown that he was definitely alive, the Spanish police had a direct interest in finding him, which they had not had before. The island had ceased to be a safe hiding-place, but had become a very dangerous one from which he had to escape as soon as possible. But in the height of the season it could be very difficult to get a flight at a moment’s notice and any of the ferries now running would land him in Spain, which was the last place where he wanted to be. Criminals so often panicked when the law seemed to be closing in on them; he’d decided that in the intervening time before he managed to make his escape, he must force Bennett to shelter him (prior to this he’d obviously not been staying at Ca’n Feut, as had seemed possible, although he might well have been a frequent visitor after the staff had left). Bennett, all too aware that his part in events was known, recognizing the risk but unable to persuade Green to keep as far away as possible, had done what he could to limit the dangers. Luckily it was Cristina’s day off, so he had told Juana not to turn up either and in that way had made certain the staff would not see Green. But he’d made two mistakes—what criminal didn’t make mistakes? He had let the hire-car remain in sight outside the house, never thinking it would arouse any interest—which, in fact, it wouldn’t have done if it hadn’t been seen by someone who knew it was like the car Serena had hired and had reason to wonder if, in fact, it was hers. And he had not tidied up the guest-room but had told Cristina to do that; perhaps it had been work that it was beneath his dignity to do . . .

  Green must have discovered the danger he was in from Serena. Why had she told him everything she had learned? Not, Alvarez was certain, because she still loved him. She had finally accepted what kind of a man he really was and it was surely not in her character to love a weak, lying pervert. No, she had warned him because she was a woman for whom the ties of loyalty even outlasted those of love . . .

  There was one way in which to check that his surmises were correct. He finally started the engine and drove home. Once there, he telephoned Motos Bon Viatge.

  ‘What d’you want now?’ demanded the owner sourly.

  ‘Has señor Galloway returned the car he hired?’

  ‘Left it at the airport and someone’s just gone in to collect it.’

  As Alvarez replaced the receiver, the unwelcome thought occurred to him that unless he could think up some way of quietly altering one or two of the facts, he was going to have to confess to Salas that Green had been hiding at Ca’n Feut when he’d called there.

  CHAPTER 20

  Dolores spoke across the dining-room table to Alvarez. ‘I met Elena this afternoon. She says that Miguel is nearly well enough to return home.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Things aren’t that easy. He can’t go back yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if he appears in public I’ll have to start asking him questions and that means naming him a witness in respect of Carlos’s murder. If I do that, inevitably he’ll be exposed as a smuggler and there’ll be nothing I can do to prevent him being in serious trouble.’

  ‘Then you do not make him a witness.’

  ‘But don’t you understand, he’s got to be if Carlos’s murderer is to be caught and punished.’

  She thought about that for a moment, her brow furrowed. ‘It’s ridiculous. Why make such a fuss about a little smuggling?’

  ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘And you prefer the law to your own flesh and blood?’

  ‘In fact, they are really only very distant relations of yours . . .’

  ‘Which makes them relations of yours. But to you that means less than nothing? You do not understand the ties of kinship?’ She stood with one swift, graceful movement. ‘Pass the dishes along.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Jaime hurriedly, ‘I want some more.’

  ‘You’re becoming fat and are going on to a diet. You’ll have nothing more to eat or drink this meal.’ She carried two of the dishes through to the kitchen.

  Jaime stared angrily at Alvarez. ‘Look what you’ve done, you bloody fool.’

  Alvarez was outraged by the injustice of that. He reached for the bottle of brandy.

  ‘And you,’ said Dolores from the doorway, ‘have also had more than enough to drink already.’

  There were times when life really was not worth living.

  Rain, the first for weeks, fell during Thursday night, but it was only light and by nine on Friday morning the sky was once more cloudless; but for a while there was a hint of freshness in the air.

  Alvarez looked across the office at the calendar which hung on the wall and puzzled over the date until he realized that he had still not yet torn off July. It called for too much effort to get up and put things right, so he used his fingers to work out how long it was since he had seen Serena. Several days, yet she had promised to contact him as soon as she felt emotionally stable. Perhaps she’d tried to get in touch with him either here or at home and the guard had forgotten it or Dolores had deliberately not told him because she was being totally unreasonable. He used the internal telephone to ask the guard on the front desk whether there had been a telephone message for him; there had not. He looked at the outside line, but decided it would be wiser not to ask Dolores directly, but to wait until he was at home and then to approach the matter obliquely.

  He checked the time and was delighted to discover it was coffee-time. Afterwards, since he could no doubt find good reason to go down to the port, he might as well call in at the Hotel Regina and leave a message for her . . .

  Three-quarters of an hour later, he spoke to the receptionist at the hotel and asked if Señorita Collins was in.

  ‘The señorita booked out on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘But . . . but that’s impossible.’

  The receptionist looked curiously at him before rechecking a list. ‘It’s right enough, Inspector.’

  A woman, middle-aged, stout, dressed in a T-shirt and very brief shorts which might have suited a shapely eighteen-year-old, pushed past Alvarez, almost knocking him off his balance. In adenoidal, South Kensingtonian English, she demanded to know where was the car that she and her friend had ordered for eleven o’clock. The receptionist politely said he was sorry to hear it had not been delivered and would immediately ring the hire company. She didn’t thank him, but angrily muttered that everyone on the island was totally incompetent before she stamped off.

  Alvarez said: ‘Have you any idea where she’s gone?’

  ‘No, but I
know exactly where I’d like to send her.’

  ‘I meant, Señorita Collins.’

  ‘Oh! Hang on, will you, while I find out what’s happened to the old cow’s car.’

  Three minutes later, the receptionist replaced the receiver. Alvarez asked him whether he’d been on duty when Señorita Collins had booked out.

  ‘No. Francisco must have been.’

  ‘If he’s around, I’d like a word with him.’

  ‘I’ll find out if he is.’

  Alvarez went over to a chair and sat, mopped his forehead, face, and neck with a handkerchief. Had he misjudged the way she would react because he had forgotten that there were women so loving and loyal that they rejected all logic and all experience; women who gained so intense a pleasure from sacrifice that they forgave even the crassest betrayal?

  But could even the most forgiving of women condone a brutal murder, the motive for which was greed . . .?

  Francisco, whom Alvarez had met on his first visit, came up to the chair. ‘You want to know about señorita Collins? There’s nothing I can tell you, really. She asked for her account, paid it, and left.’

  ‘You’ve no idea where she was off to?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘How did she leave here—by taxi?’

  Francisco shook his head. ‘I asked her if she wanted me to order her one, but she said someone was meeting her. She waited a few minutes and then a man turned up and she went off with him.’

  ‘Have you any idea who he was?’

  ‘Never seen him before.’

  ‘English?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘I was being driven crazy by a party of guests who wanted to book an excursion, but couldn’t decide which to choose and kept on and on asking stupid questions. I saw him with her and that’s all.’

  ‘Try and remember something about him. Was he tall, clean-shaven, and with a long, narrow face that had an expression on it which suggested he thought everyone else needed a bath?’

  ‘It’s no good. He was dressed casual, but still looked smart; that’s all I noticed.’

  Alvarez left the hotel and walked slowly along the front road towards his parked car. That the man had been smartly dressed was hardly a definite description, yet he was certain the man had been Bennett. Come to collect Serena to take her to Green? But the car hired by Green from Motos Bon Viatge had been left at the airport, suggesting he’d flown from the island. A bluff on top of a bluff? Had he decided to remain because it was so obvious that he must flee once the original bluff had been exposed? If so, then despite all she’d said, Serena had forsworn her resolve to have nothing more to do with him . . .

  He had to discover where she’d gone and somehow find the words that would finally strip away the last illusion and force her to understand that there were times when love and loyalty ceased to be admirable traits and instead became stupid and deadly dangerous.

  CHAPTER 21

  As he stepped into the entrada of Folchs’ house, Alvarez felt the tension mount until it seemed to be squeezing his breath. Would either Cristina or Juana be able to tell him what he must know?

  Cristina came into the room. ‘I thought I recognized the voice. It’s strange, isn’t it? You don’t see somebody for years and then you see ‘em every other day.’

  There was a hint of excitement in her manner which made him think that she would soon be meeting a boyfriend. If he had the powers of a fairy godmother, he’d wish her the most valuable of all gifts—that she be allowed to escape the more bitter complications of personal relationships.

  ‘Here, are you all right?’ she asked, with sudden concern.

  Just thinking . . . You’ll remember that photo I showed you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Has the man turned up at Ca’n Feut in the past couple of days?’

  ‘I haven’t see him.’

  ‘Could he be in the house without you knowing—are there rooms you don’t normally go into?’

  ‘No way. The señor’s crazy about keeping the place clean and tidy and I have to dust in every single room most days.’

  ‘You know señorita Collins, don’t you?’

  That’s right.’

  ‘Have you seen her recently?’

  ‘She’s been around for the past couple of days.’

  ‘When was she last up there?’

  She said, in puzzled tones: ‘I’m saying, she’s staying there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Couldn’t be surer.’

  He spoke aloud, but more to himself than to her. ‘But if Green isn’t there, she’s on her own and . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it was like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’

  And suddenly he realized what she was inferring. ‘How dare you!’ he said violently.

  She stepped back, momentarily frightened by his sudden anger.

  ‘Keep your vile ideas to yourself.’

  Her fear, since she had considerable spirit, turned into resentment. ‘Why are you shouting at me like that?’

  ‘It’s disgusting to suggest she’d have anything to do with the señor.’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone told you, that sort of thing happens these days.’

  ‘I know what goes on better than you do and I also know that there are still some people who are decent.’

  ‘You sound like my Aunt Maria . . . I make the beds, right? And I’ve only been making the one in his room because none of the others has been used even though she’s staying there. And I’ll tell you something more. From the look of the sheets in the morning, the bed’s not been used just for sleeping.’

  He longed to believe that she was merely gaining a salacious excitement from lying, but he could not deny his conviction that she was telling the truth. An aching, despairing sadness began to freeze his mind.

  She stared at him. ‘Something is the matter! Are you feeling rotten all of a sudden? Can I get you a drink?’

  He shook his head, turned, and crossed to the front door, only vaguely aware that she was saying something more. He left the house and walked along the pavement, with the shuffling steps of someone old, passing a man who was beating out the wool from a mattress. How could she? Bennett was immensely wealthy whereas Green, if his attempt to defraud the company failed, had little to offer. But knowing her, it was impossible to accept so facile and sordid an explanation. So what could make her give herself to Bennett on so short an acquaintance? Slowly and painfully he began to understand. When a woman of her nature discovered she had been deceived and betrayed by the man she loved, her sense of loss was far more acute than it would be for another, and less emotional woman; so acute, in fact, that love became hate and loyalty disloyalty, since one was the mirror image of the other. How best could she express her newborn hate and disloyalty? By giving herself to a man she disliked because this was the opposite of the reason for which she had previously given herself. . .

  But understanding did not ease the ever-growing pain. On the contrary, it increased it because he could judge how she would be hating herself even as she revenged herself.

  He was only a few hundred metres from the entrance gates of Ca’n Feut when a yellow Porsche rounded the corner in front of him and passed at a speed which rocked his car. The Porsche had been going too fast for him to identify the driver, although he could be certain there had been no passenger, but it was the kind of car he would have expected Bennett to own. If it had been Bennett’s, and Serena was up at the house, he’d the chance to speak to her on her own. He reached the gates, spoke to Cristina over the speaker, then drove through and up the winding road. Cristina opened the front door.

  ‘Is the señor in?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘He left a moment ago to collect the mail . . . Are you better today?’

  ‘Yes, thank you . . . And the señorita?’

  She looked curiously at him, int
rigued by the tone of his voice. ‘She’s out by the pool.’

  Serena, lying on a chaise-longue, was wearing a brief bikini and despite the fact that her figure was fuller than would normally have been advisable in so skimpy a garment, she was flattered rather than mocked. She turned her head and watched him approach, her eyes hidden by reflective dark glasses.

  He’d thought of many opening sentences, any one of which would have subtly reminded her how hurt he must be, but as he came up to her, he blurted out: ‘You’ve never called me.’

  ‘I said I’d be in touch when I felt ready.’ There was neither warmth nor any suggestion of remorse in her voice.

  ‘But . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  He had expected embarrassment, hoped for contrition, found only rejection. Bewildered, he gestured with his hands. ‘But surely . . .’

  She came to her feet. ‘You’d better come inside and have a drink.’

  As his bewilderment slowly became replaced by bitterness, he followed her around the pool and into the house. The mobile cocktail cabinet was near a display cabinet and she gestured at it. ‘Pour yourself out what you want. I’m going to put on something; Pat keeps the air-conditioning so high the house is like an ice-box.’

  He watched her walk the length of the room to pass through the doorway and the smooth movements of her flesh filled his mind. Cursing his weakness—please God he would soon reach an age when the desires of the flesh were lost—he crossed to the cocktail cabinet, opened the two top flaps which brought up the shelf of bottles, and poured himself a very large brandy.

  When she returned, she was wearing a pink towelling robe. ‘Have you found what you want?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. What can I pour you?’

  ‘A red vermouth with soda and lots of ice.’

  ‘There isn’t any ice.’ The formal politeness with which they spoke mocked him.

  ‘I’ll go and get some.’ She left, to return with an insulated ice-bucket which she handed to him. Their fingers briefly met and the touch was, for him, painful. He poured out a vermouth, added soda and ice, carried the glass over to the large settee where she now sat. He returned to the cocktail cabinet and dropped three ice cubes into his brandy, went over to an armchair. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded . . .’